


eight per cent

by cicadas



Series: pater noster [1]
Category: The Umbrella Academy (TV)
Genre: A Less Than Joyous Childhood, Gen, Luther feels, Reginald Hargreeves A+ parenting, Whump
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-27
Updated: 2019-10-27
Packaged: 2020-11-01 11:23:06
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,579
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20814320
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cicadas/pseuds/cicadas
Summary: Luther first tore a muscle when he was eight years old.





	eight per cent

Luther first tore a muscle when he was eight years old.

The vest he had zipped up to his throat contained various small weights deposited over his back, in pockets hanging by his hips, and sewn into segments over his chest. It's black wetsuit material, the same he saw Diego wearing when he walked - Dad and Pogo following closely behind him - towards the stairs that lead to the underground pool.

"Number One! Repeat!"

Dad motioned to Pogo, and he brought his cane down on the wooden floor. Luther looked up at the railing they were both peering over, feeling sweat drip from his hairline into the fabric clutching too tightly around his upper body.

He squared his shoulders, straightened his back, and bent his elbows as low as he could in a push-up that made his entire body scream.

He barely managed to bring himself back up to lock his elbows in place. He tilted his head up to the railing once more.

"Dad, it hurts." He said.

He'd done the set amount given to him at the beginning of the session. He should be done by now. His body ached, ached, ached, but the niggling fear of disappointing his father has kept him going through two more rounds. That fear started to dissipate during the last three push-ups that had him in a heavier vest with a stopwatch in front of his face, telling him he wasn't working hard or fast enough.

Dad had the stopwatch in his hands, now, looking down on him from the balcony, watching him squirm and tremor on the training mats where he sparred with his siblings five days out of seven.

"Number One, Again!"

Pogo thumped his cane once more.

Luther breathed out a shaky exhale, squeezed his eyes shut, and tried again.

His arms gave out from under him as soon as he bent his elbows. A sharp, searing pain worked its way up his right shoulder, worming under the vest to settle deep into his back. It _burned_. It burned so bad he couldn't breathe.

Luther collapsed onto the plastic-covered foam of the training mat and heaved in as much air as he could, trying to move his arms out from under him to stretch out the ache that was growing more and more.

"Again!"

He clutched at his shoulder as best as he could given the lumps of fabric and metal in the way, holding in a shout that wanted to escape him so badly.

"Dad?"

"Again!"

Luther rolled onto his back, and the pain shot through him like a lightning bolt. It was white-hot, deep inside his muscles, spreading up from his elbow to his neck to his shoulder blade. It was like the time he'd fallen backwards into the fireplace, only he hadn't. He'd tried. He'd tried to do as he was told, and he'd failed.

Luther moved as carefully as he could, clutching one arm with the other, onto his knees, then to his feet.

"I think I hurt my arm," He said, not wanting to admit _I can't do it._

His father's eyes narrowed as much as they could with the monocle propping one open.

"Number One. You have barely begun your sixth set. What is the problem?" He demanded.

Luther shifted on his feet, and the pain leeched further into his shoulder, sinking in deep enough to bite at his bones.

"My arm hurts, Dad. I don't think I can do any more tonight," _Please don't make me,_ "Maybe I could do more tomorrow to make up for-"

"Enough! Take off that vest and follow Dr. Pogo to the far wall. You will complete your last hours of training there, seeing as you have decided to give up on strength circuits."

No, no, no.

"Dad, I'm sorry, I'm really sorry,"

Luther heard the clicks of Pogo's cane as he descended. Saw his father disappear from the bannister as soon as he'd finished speaking.

When Pogo appeared at the stairwell, Luther really started crying.

"Pogo, please, I'm really sorry, I just- My arm really hurts. Tell Dad I'm really sorry, okay? I'll try harder. I can do it, now. I'm fine now, Pogo!"

The butler in front of him watched him with round, careful eyes. Even that young, Luther knew he'd only get pity from him. He never went against anything his father said, no matter what it was.

Luther suffered the ache in his arm, burning a headache into the back of his skull, and moved as slowly as he could behind Pogo, towards the far wall of the room. Towards the metal clamps and wires that hung from the frame he'd been strapped into since he was four years old. He hated it. He hated it.

He turned around without having to be asked, and backed himself up against the cold metal. Two wires pressed into his temples with sticky adhesive patches, two on his chest. His arms lifted out of habit alone, tearing underneath his skin like there was something broken about him.

Luther raised his hands as high as he could, until his shoulder was thumping along with his heart, burning, burning his skin from the inside out. He raised them until he hit the height marked out on the wall, then he stopped.

Pogo switched the machine on, and Luther felt the familiar, unwelcome buzz spread through his body. Threatening to build to a shock - a burst of sharp electricity, spreading throughout his body in milliseconds - if his arms ever lowered from that height. Perfectly straight, pressed against the wall, fingers outstretched and already trembling.

He didn't dare move his head to look at Pogo in case it triggered the sensors. Just watched from his peripherals as the ape moved in his slow, shuffling manner away from him, back towards the stairwell.

_I hate you,_ he thought. _I hate him._

When the ache in his shoulder grew loud enough to ring in his ears, he felt his body start to relax his muscles for some relief. His arm, straight from shoulder to fingertip, bent at the elbow ever so slightly, and the sensors followed his movement past that indicative line, sending this feedback to loop through the machine and return in the form of electricity in the wires on his body.

The first shock felt like a punishment.

_I'm sorry,_ he thought fiercely. _I didn't mean it. I'm sorry, I'm sorry._

He lifted his arm back up to the mark, tears spilling hot over his lashes onto his cheeks when his damaged body protested in the form of sharp pain bursting throughout his body, worse than the electric shocks to his temples.

Three hours. Three more hours, then he would apologise. He'd try again. He wouldn't disappoint. Weakness was unworthiness, and all he wanted was to be told he was still good enough to be Number One. He'd earn it, he would.

When his arm dropped again, and the second shock came, Luther broke out into sobs. They shook his body hard enough to knock him out of place, and the sensors sent the movements back to the machine. They sent back another bout of electricity, buzzing through Luther's skull and chest. The cycle would continue until training was over, and Luther was let out of his bonds to collapse on the floor, clutching his shoulder and crying hard enough to wake his siblings in their rooms upstairs.

His father watched him writhe about on the floor, curled into himself like a child with a much smaller build.

"Disappointing, Number One. I expect you to perform better tomorrow." He said, effectively dismissing him.

Luther scrambled to his feet as quickly as his hollow body would allow.

He wanted Mom and her hugs, an ice pack and to be tucked into bed. He wanted to peek into Allison's room to say goodnight before he closed his bedroom door for the night. Most of all, he wanted his father to make eye contact with him, just this once.

"I will," He said surely. "I'll make you proud, Dad."

Luther looked up at the cracked glass of his Dad's monocle, wondering when that had happened, but his father was focused on the results displayed on the machine beside him.

"That is yet to be seen," Dad said, and clapped him on his sore shoulder.

Luther bit his lip to keep a whine inside, unheard, and nodded.

"Goodnight, Dad." He said, and hobbled on aching legs over to the stairs that would take him to bed. The one place he didn't have to be the best. Where he could rest, and nothing else.

Halfway up the wide, wooden stairs, Luther heard his father speak. He paused, leant through the railing, and listened.

"Such potential, wasted," Dad muttered. He clicked his fingers over the screen's display, showing him just how many times Luther had been shocked that night. How many times he'd failed to complete the task set for him.

Luther still felt the buzz of electricity under his skin when he finally laid his head down to sleep, reminding him of how poorly he'd done.

_ Such potential, wasted. _

He squeezed his eyes shut and felt the tears come once more at the thought of having to endure that again tomorrow night. They flowed sharp and real across his nose where he buried it into his pillow, letting the fabric absorb them off his face into the duck-down for Mom to clean in the morning.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> originally the first chapter of my Diego fic (in this similar vein). Reginald here is more directly cruel than emotionally negligent, but who knows what happens behind closed doors y’know.


End file.
